


Anaphora

by irolltwenties (Shenanigans)



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, just a quick dump of echo ficlets from tumblr, tumblr ficlets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22054633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shenanigans/pseuds/irolltwenties
Summary: Max Evans and Liz Ortecho are just stupidly wonderful and I love them. That's it. That's the summary.
Relationships: Max Evans/Liz Ortecho
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	Anaphora

1.

“Hey,” Max managed, pausing at the landing to pant for a second, chasing Liz up the stairs at the Library with a shake of his head. He’d caught her wrist, pausing her two steps up. “Wait a second.”

Liz managed to convey annoyance, fondness, and an unrelenting need to finish the research in one quick head tilt that tossed her hair to tumble over her shoulder. She was frowning down at him, mild annoyance flickering in the small crease between her brows. 

“Max. We have to ge-”

He pushed up onto his toes, setting a foot on the next step up and caught her mouth. It was a moment, a bright hot throb of adoration that had welled up helpless to the stubborn set of her jaw and the irrepressible brilliance as she listed the next step in the research in quick fire spanish. She listed out loud and under her breath as she’d charged up the stairs, shorter legs churning as he tried to slow and take the steps two at a time as he trailed. He couldn’t help it.

Liz Ortecho in motion was breathtaking, graceful and electric. Liz Ortecho in motion was like catching lightning between his palms. 

“Now we can go,” he muttered, nosing lightly at her cheek before kissing her again- once softly before leaning back. “Just… had to get that out of my system.”

Liz sighed, eyes opening slowly to smirk at him before whirling and charging up the stairs again. “Get the headlines from the microfiche databank about the weeks after the crash to see if there was anything that correlates to the cattle reactions we’re seeing now.”

“Right.” Max slapped a palm to the banister, staring up after her with a helpless smile. “On it.”

2.  
Liz could forget that Max Evans was a good six foot of lean muscle until he was taking up most of the bed, sheets puddled around his hips and the broad plane of his chest the only pillow left. She could forget that he towered above her, lifting her easily as someone lifted a dainty teacup from a saucer to sip at her mouth. He touched her with a tenderness that she didn’t always understand; he touched her like she was devotion. Liz Ortecho could forget a lot of things, but Max Evans was always so good at reminding her. 

He was on his back in the navy sheets, dark hair mussed and flopping over his forehead, eyes closed and mouth quirked on a soft lopsided grin. Everything about him seemed canted to the side, off balance, and a little bowlegged. Max Evans was made to amble. He was made for a slow sort of movement that matched his smile, his shoulders, the cant of his hips when he exhaled and just looked at her. He was made to take things at a slow savor, the long rise and fall of his chest with his breath like the tides. She wanted to fold him up and tuck him under her skin.

He’d linger there: inside her. He lingered in loving her.

She set her fingers over his collarbones, feeling the divot at the base of his throat with a quick touch. Her hand looked so small against the breadth of him. Her palm tucked against the top of his heartbeat while she spread her fingertips wide to smooth over the curve of his collarbones. She liked that he kept his eyes closed when she traced him. She liked that he let her study him, learn him, love him in her way.

The room was caught in that Eastern morning light, bouncing pale off the walls and catching in his hair, burnishing it with a reddish tone. It caught the planes of him, small shadows and valleys for her to trace. She watched her fingers tiptoe up the line of his throat, thumb skipping like a stone over his adam’s apple. She could feel the sharp prickle of his stubble against her knuckles. He moved with her, rolling to open and then push into her palm. She liked the cleft in his chin. She liked the petulant twist of his mouth. She liked the soft worry of his eyes. She liked that he was a set of contradictions made handsome in motion.

Max Evans managed to look tired when he was sleeping. He managed to look in love when his heart was breaking. He managed to look pained when he was shocked open with pleasure. He managed to be something she wanted to learn. He was contradictions. He was complicated. 

Loving him wasn’t. They had so much to work through, but here, draped against his body in a quick skin warm tangle it made sense. Something about him felt like home.

She traced the soft curve of his bottom lip, feeling the blushing heat of his breath, the slippery shift of a sleepy smile. 

“Mornin’,” he whispered, voice a low husky drawl as he smiled with his eyes closed and shifted against her in a shaking stretch.

“Morning,” she answered, letting her fingers dance against his lips.

Max Evans moved slow as the creep of shadow across the plane, reaching to catch her wrist with those big hands and open his eyes to look at her. It felt stunning, the way he watched her like she was sunrise, like she was something unbearably beautiful. He watched her like she was the answer.

She didn’t even know she’d asked a question until he pulled up, stomach going taut and tugged her to him. He answered her the simplest way, mouth careful against hers in the morning light. He was always careful at first until she melted into it for more. He was always careful until she consented. He was so gentle with his hunger. He asked for permission with a soft touch of his nose before each kiss. He asked for permission with a quick controlled taste. He asked for permission with the spread of a large hand at the small of her back that pulled her tight against him. He asked. He asked. He asked her; she could answer now. She could answer with the words he’d let her know were theirs.

Yes. 

You. 

Always.

3.

“Max.”

“Liz.”

“Babe.” Liz is covered in a sheet, staring at him, but he’s having trouble focusing. She’s in a sheet and her hair is a mess. He’s having trouble focusing, because he can see the inside of her thigh where the skin is so soft and smooth he can feel his mouth water thinking about it. She’s in a sheet and there’s lipstick marks on his dick.

Liz is staring at him, unamused and flushed.

“If this is going to work I’m going to need you to take a breath,” she widens her eyes at him, wetting her lip and his cock throbs at the flash of pink tongue. There’s a spark to their right and she deadpans at him. “Take a breath, babe. Stop exploding the camcorder, okay?” Liz is speaking slowly and Max can feel how hot his ears are, how hot his skin has gone, tight in his arousal.

Max Evans is hard and the camcorder is smoking and all he wants to do is get this right for her. 

“This is going to be expensive,” he mutters, closing his eyes and shivering around a desperate grasp for control when she huffs a low laugh and spreads her knees, the sheet puddling at the crease of her thigh.

4.

Liz Ortecho was standing in his kitchen, pointing at the cast iron skillet with a confused look on her face. Her hair was tangled on one side, clumping in a little hump of bedhead and Max couldn’t look too long or he’d start thinking about how she had gotten the red marks just under her jaw. He’d start thinking about how his shirt hung off of her shoulders and brushed against her toned thighs. He’d start thinking about her underwear still on his living room floor from the night before.

“Is that frittata?”

“Yes.” He tucked his tongue behind his teeth, lifting both eyebrows around an amused grin. She blinked again, exhaling a soft noise of disbelief before cocking her head.

“You are full of surprises, Max Evans.”

“Soon to be full of breakfast,” he replied, setting the skillet on the burner and flipping the towel he’d used as an oven mit over his shoulder.

“Never say that again,” she told him blankly, blunt before coffee, brutal before breakfast.

“Noted.” He leaned back against the counter when she started pushing at him, pressing to lean her forehead against his collarbone. He dropped his mouth into her hair, smelling the soft clean scent and humming lightly. “Good morning.”

His kitchen was well appointed and well loved with a newly oiled wooden cutting board, perfectly sensible coffee maker, and gas range with a griddle between the burners. He liked it here. He liked her here with him, turning to palm her hips between his hands as she mumbled quietly in spanish as she woke up. He hummed a laugh when she grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands under the hem of his t-shirt. He turned his fingers, exhaling a low sound at the wet heat of her.

“Much better,” she muttered.

“Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.” He touched at her, closing his eyes when she started to roll her hips. “Romeo and Juliet.”

Liz Ortecho was standing in his kitchen and looked up at him, dark eyes hot with something darker than hunger. “Max.”

He grinned at her, mouth dropping open a little as he pressed up. “Act four, scene two.”

5.

“Someone is at the door,” Max didn’t open his eyes, just listened to the polite knocking that followed the doorbell. He could feel the lump of covers tucked against his side where Liz was cocooned. “I may commit a felony.”

There was an indistinct muttering from somewhere near where he guessed her head would be as he swivelled out of the sheets to put his feet on the floor. He grabbed a pair of boxers, hooking them up on his hips and snagged his phone, eyeing the time as the screen pulsed to life under his touch. The polite knocking continued and Max frowned around a deep sigh and went into action.

He shouldered around the corner, padding silently down the hall as he scanned the guest room quickly, the kitchen, the living room and finally the front door. He’d been caught unaware too many times. He reached, grabbing the baton on the writing desk next to his leather bound journal and flicked it out, telescoping precaution tight in his grip as he slid forward, flipping the curtain enough to scan the front lawn and finally settle on the visitor at the door.

Arturo Ortecho stood with mixing bowls cocked on his hip and a bright smile over red patterned flannel, a white apron, and a wicked hint of threat in his cheery demeanor. “I see you in there. I know you can hear me, Max Evans. It is my beautiful daughter’s birthday and I will be making her churro pancakes.” Max groggily translated, trying to keep up despite the specific way Arturo was enunciating his implied threat. “Now, open this door, before I start making a real scene.” 

Max cleared his throat, looking down at himself, the boxers, the baton, and the bare feet. “Sir. We weren’t expe-”

“I will revoke any and all french fry privileges and any nice thing I’ve ever said about you, Max Evans. I do not care how you expected company. Open the door, go get dressed, and let me have this moment.” Arturo tapped a wooden spoon against the door again. 

Max unlocked the door, smile going crooked at Arturo’s arched eyebrow. “Yes, Sir.”

“Papá?” Liz was standing in the hallway, hair mussed and tangled on one side wearing his shirt and a stunning startled smile that seemed to light the hallway all on it’s own. “What are you doing here?”

“Happy birthday, mi cielito.” Arturo shrugged around his wares and the sound of LIz’s delighted laugh made the ungodly hour worth it. “I wouldn’t forget.”

6.

Max was flat on his back, mud seeping into his shirt as the rain pummeled him. The day had started out with a low gray haze and had shoved into something violent and crackling.

He’d planned a picnic. He’d planned a picnic with a blanket, a decent red blend that cost him fifty bucks, and a basket of finger foods he’d borrowed from his sister. He’d planned a picnic with a view of the mesa and a memory of their first dance. 

Max was flat on his back, cold, jeans heavy and wet and water in his boots sopping in his socks. He’d meant to just get out and change the tire on the jeep when it had blown, skidding them out in a wild terrifying spin that slapped them into the guard rail. The headlights poked two long streams of white into the relentless rain and Liz had both hands on the dash, panting around the white knuckled terror. 

“Shit.”

“Are you okay? Oh my god.” Liz looked over at him, eyes wide as she caught her breath. Max ducked forward and looked up through the front windshield like he was going to be able to see the end of the storm, like he could look up through the long pelting sheets to the clouds and higher to where it was sunny above the clouds. “Pensé que íbamos a morir.”

“We’ve survived alien invasion, parasites, Project Shepherd, your father threatening me with a shot gun, and -”

“Irony, Max Evans. The irony of dying in a car crash would definitely not be lost on anyone.”

“We’re not dying in a car crash. We’re going on a picnic.”

“You are very set on this picnic.”

Max sighed, pushing his hair back off his forehead and set his shoulders in determination. “I promised you a picnic. I am not breaking another promi-”

“Max.” 

He turned and in the small space of the jeep she filled each breath with something stunningly beautiful, dark haired, and perfect. He could feel her in his bloodstream, feel her just under his skin. He smiled at her, quick and a little reckless- drunk on perfect purpose and shouldered out the door and into the wall of rain.

He’d gotten the spare off the back. He’d gotten the lug nuts loosened. He’d gotten the jack settled. He’d gotten them so close to fixed when he’d slipped, ankle turning sickly on a lug nut hiding in a small puddle of rainwater. He’d smacked his head on the side mirror, cracked his knee on the tire iron that was helping roll the jack higher. He’d hit hard, face down on the side of the road and mud smeared before he’d managed to shove up and over onto his back. He was drenched, filthy, and facing the sky.

“Max!” 

“You weren’t supposed to get out of the car,” he told Liz sternly when she leaned into view, long hair curtaining around her face and the large umbrella blocking the relentless rain. 

“I heard you scream.”

“So you had to investigate?” Max closed his eyes and covered his face at a sudden burble of wreckless laughter. “Of course you did.” He coughed around another laugh, staring up at her with wondering eyes as she frowned down at him, that perfect line pulled between her eyebrows as she tried to figure him out. He huffed another laugh, trying to catch it down and smear his face serious and failing spectacularly. “You’re intrepid.”

“Are you making fun of me, Max Evans?” she asked as she hunkered down, hovering in a squat over him as she cocked her head at him.

“I was trying to take you on a picnic.”

“I don’t think we’re going on a picnic, Max.”

“It was important. I had it all planned out.” He’d given up on feeling uncomfortable where he was flat on his back, giggling around the ridiculousness of it all. This day had gone perfectly, completely, and inherently wrong. He’d planned a picnic. He’d planned it for months.

He hadn’t planned on the rain being pushed through New Mexico from a tropical storm that had petered out somewhere over Texas earlier in the week dumping what felt like gallons of water on the desert.

“We were going to sit on the hood of my jeep and eat and drink. I had Bright Eyes on my phone so I could queue it up at the right time. I was going to dance with you where we danced the first time. I was going to get my kiss.” He sighed, staring up at her.

Liz Ortecho was a force of nature that not even the rain could dim.

Max reached into his jean pocket and pulled out a black velvet box. Lightning crashed around her gasp.

“I wanted it to be perfect when I asked you to marry me.” He thumbed the box open, watching her face. He gave up on trying to be anything other than completely in love with her when she nodded once, tossed the umbrella aside, and flung herself at him.

Maybe it was perfect after all.

**Author's Note:**

> fic dumping! Thanks for reading!


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